Night Moves (Doc Ford)

15




CRESSA ARTURO LOOKED FROM ME TO TOMLINSON, then back to me and smiled, “Why is it I feel like a kid in an ice-cream store?” which was her way of proving she could relax and have fun with the subject, a soon-to-be divorcée whose new life was already on a roll.

Tonight, her outfit matched the meticulously casual décor: a white linen dress that caught the patio breeze, with straps more like two scarves that lifted her breasts in suspension and framed cleavage. Beige sandals, silver bracelet, and a white ceramic watch, but it was the beach dress that added a bounce to her step as she exited the kitchen carrying drinks.

I could sense Tomlinson about to reference ice cream—Eskimo Bars, possibly—and was silencing him with a look when Cressa stiffened. “Was that a car? I think someone just pulled into the drive.” She put the tray down and tilted her head to listen.

“Cress, sweetie, your whole breathing rhythm changes when you’re nervous. Realize that?” Tomlinson, eager to help, was already relighting the joint he and the woman had started. I scooted my chair back to avoid the smoke.

The married mistress was still attuned to sounds outside: tree frogs, the wash of waves . . . then the BANG! of a heavy car door.

I thought, Uh-oh, wondered if I’d been unwise to trip the laser-beam camera sensor.

“Can’t imagine who it could be,” the woman muttered, then hurried inside the house to have a look, her sandals clicking on tile. After a few seconds, she called to us from across the house, “My god, it’s him! It’s Rob! What the hell is he doing here?”

Tomlinson was looking at me, smiling through a cannabis haze as if he’d been surprised by jealous husbands a thousand times, and was now pleased to share the experience with me, his ol’ buddy. “This should be interesting,” he confided, leaning back in his chair. “Just stay cool, man. If we tried to escape over the railing, he’d know for sure we’re lovers. This way, we’re just two neighbors who stopped by for a drink. A welcome-to-our-island sort of visit.”

I turned to face him. “Cameras,” I said. “Or did you forget?”

Yes, judging from the man’s reaction. “Oh, yeah . . . that,” he nodded and sat up straighter. “Well, I’ve jumped off higher balconies, but I wouldn’t panic just yet. Always let the woman handle these situations. No matter what they say, they’ve rehearsed their story over and over in their heads. A guy gets involved, though, the husband dude really will get pissed off.”

I replied, “Some vet should have neutered you years ago,” then got to my feet and had a last sip of beer. I wanted to be ready just in case the husband dude came crashing into the room with a bat in his hand or even a gun. It was possible. Who could blame him?

When Robert Arturo Jr. appeared in the foyer, he was fuming but not enraged and polite enough to wipe his feet before sliding past his wife. Instead of the couch potato she’d described, I was looking at a man, late twenties, who might have played college basketball or was a competitive swimmer and still competed weekends. Tall, good-looking, slacks pleated, shirt fresh from the laundry, his hair combed just so. Tortoise-rimmed glasses added a professorial touch and gave his nervous hands something to do when he turned to Cressa and accused, “Screwing my brother wasn’t enough? What do you think Dad will say when he sees this?”

I was thinking, She’s sleeping with the crazy brother-in-law, too? while Arturo drew his arm back and hurled something across the room that bounced off the soiled couch, then spun to a stop on the floor.

A DVD, I realized. Video of the married mistress with another man fresh from the surveillance cameras?

Tomlinson, still sitting, informed me, “It’s always a bad sign when they throw stuff,” which caused Rob to notice that two strangers were listening in. My truck was in the drive, I don’t know why he was surprised but he was. The man stabbed at his glasses, unsure about how to handle the situation, then glared at his wife. “You are un-goddamn-believable. Know that, Cressy? Doing threesomes now, are we?”

“How can you be so filthy-minded in front of my guests?” the woman countered. “That’s just sick. My god—your brother? Take that back and apologize right now!”

“It’s true and you know it!”

I decided it was time to get the hell out of there and I tried, saying, “We were just leaving,” then indicated the patio door, the steps to the pool just beyond. “Thanks for the drinks.”

“The hell you are!” Arturo shouted and came toward us with long strides, but slowed when he got to the couch. He was momentarily distracted by the mud stains, then got madder when his eyes settled on Tomlinson as he knelt to retrieve the DVD. “It’s you,” he said finally. “It is you. Of all the goddamn gall!”

He turned to his wife. “You can’t do better than this? Some pathetic hippie loser? As crazy as Deano is, he was right about your whoring. Here”—he shoved the DVD at her—“you tell my father to watch this sick . . . garbage for himself. I dare you.”

Cressa said, “Robert, are you insane? I have no idea what you’re talking about! Is it Dean? Call the goddamn facility if he’s making threats again.”

Now I was thinking, The crazy brother’s in an asylum? a question that was answered when Rob Arturo told his wife, “This was playing on the screen when I started the Lexus,” meaning the DVD clenched in his hand. “The car at our condo twenty miles from here?”

“That can’t be!” The expression on the woman’s face suggested shock and also asked How?

“I didn’t catch a five a.m. flight for the fun of it,” Robert snapped. “Dean escaped!” He turned to me. “My brain-damaged brother ran straight for Florida when he took off. More than a week ago, and she’s been here the whole time. What’s that tell you?”

The wheels in my head were turning. I said to him, “Let me ask you something. Did you plant the cameras outside? Because if you’re not paying for the surveillance . . .”

“Surveillance?” The husband looked at the wife, both of them confused, or at least pretended to be.

“What cameras?” Cressa demanded.

I nodded toward the patio door. “I can show you—but I’d be surprised if at least one of you didn’t know.”

Husband and wife, two icy spheres, followed me down the steps, through the pool area, outside, where I didn’t expect to need night vision to find what I was looking for.

But I was wrong. The cameras were gone. Just like that, someone had slipped in and collected them all, two tripods included.

When Tomlinson suggested, “I left a joint upstairs. How about we take ten, then come back with flashlights?” the search ended abruptly.

“I’ll call the cops if you’re not off my property in ten seconds,” Rob Arturo told us. He meant it.

—

IT WAS ALMOST MIDNIGHT when I heard the soft clang of the bell at the walkway gate.

I stood, hesitated—this couldn’t be good news, and I was right. It was the married mistress bundled in a trench coat and stocking cap. Even at a distance, I could see that she was dabbing a handkerchief at her eyes.

The evening had turned chilly, a northeast breeze sufficiently brisk I had lighted a fire in the woodstove that heats my quarters when I’m in the mood. My mongrel heart was certainly in the mood, but logic demanded that I look at the ceiling and wonder aloud, “Why me?”

Curled near the fire, the dog looked up, thumped the floor with his tail, then went back to sleep. If that was a warning, the animal definitely didn’t possess extrasensory powers as Tomlinson claimed.

Clang-clang. The bell again. Crescent Arturo was getting impatient.

I was wearing sweatpants and a tank top that could have stood a washing. Should I hurry up and change?

Who you trying to kid, Ford? A rational man would tell her to go away . . . At most, offer to drive her home.

That’s exactly what I decided to do while I pulled off the tank top and chose an old Egyptian cotton shirt. I had the shirt on by the time I got to the door and called to the woman, “Come on in.”

While she crossed the boardwalk, I suffered a moment of clarity and used the cell to call Tomlinson. I was staring through a window at the cabin lights of No Más when he answered.

“Get your ass over here now,” I whispered.

“Trouble?” he asked. He sounded hopeful, which suggested he’d done more drinking than smoking.

“I think your girlfriend needs a place to sleep.”

He replied, “Huh . . . ? Oh—her! Be there soon as I get this damn caulking off my hands,” then a clattering sound that told me he’d dropped the phone.

From the porch, I heard, “Are you alone?”

“Depends on your definition,” I said, stepping over the dog, then opening the screen door. An attractive woman who’s been crying projects a childlike quality that dampens sensuality, yet it softens the heart. “Everything’ll be okay,” I assured, steered her inside. “What happened?”

When Cressa had a glass of wine in hand and was seated in the chair next to my telescope and books, she answered the question, explaining, “We had a terrible fight after you left—no surprise, I’m sure. Robby went storming out. His family has a condo near the airport. I thought about calling Tomlinson, but I hate that little rubber dinghy boat of his. It’s so wet, and the wind’s freezing.”

“The condo where your husband keeps a Lexus,” I said.

“His family’s car. I was glad he left, at first, because usually I love being alone in the beach house. But . . . then I got scared.” She looked at me, her jadeite eyes glistening. “It’s because of Deano. He’s around here somewhere. I believed you about the cameras. How else this?”

She was still wearing the trench coat cinched tight by a belt. From a pocket, she pulled the DVD Rob had found and placed it on the desk. On the disc was a little label, the stick-on type, one word printed in caps: WHORE!!!

“Looks like someone doesn’t approve of your new freedom,” I said. “Your brother-in-law for sure?”

“Who else?”

“There has to be a reason. Why would Rob’s brother give a damn?” I pointed at the DVD. “In the video, who’s the guy with you?”

“How would I know!” she snapped. “I watched just enough to see where it was taken. That’s all. Just the thought of someone spying gives me the creeps.”

“I assume you were with Tomlinson,” I said. But also knew the married mistress could have added another man to the list in her eagerness to make up for lost time.

Cressa began to fidget. “Of course it’s him, but that’s not the point. What really hurts is that a member of Rob’s family is behind this. Dean—it’s got to be him. How could he do such a thing!”

I said, “Dean as in Deano?”

“If it’s serious, Dean,” the woman said, then focused her attention on her handkerchief while I touched a hand to her shoulder but also tried to keep her talking.

“You should be telling this to the police,” I told her. “The brother, Deano, just how crazy is he?”

“That’s what’s so upsetting,” she replied, “I don’t even know anymore. A year ago, a judge signed papers and put him into a private facility. Very expensive, but it seemed to help. Everyone thought Dean was getting better.” Cressa sniffed again and added, “The judge was a friend of the family—of course.”

“A full year?” I said. “Then he must have some kind of history. You can’t just sign a paper and put someone away for a year.”

“No, he’s been in and out, getting treatment. You can only make them stay seventy-two hours. It’s not his fault, that’s the sad thing. Used to be, Dean was a terrific guy.”

A hint of family loyalty or had Rob been right about Cressa sleeping with his brother? The latter, I began to suspect.

“He’s a speed freak,” she explained. “Not the pill type—not at first, anyway. He raced motocross, boats, you name it. He was just getting into planes, probably skipping steps, I don’t know, but Dean managed to crash one into a hangar. The doctors said he was fine, just a concussion. But that’s when he started to change—two years ago in December. ‘Prescription drugs,’ people say it like they’re safe, but they’re even worse than the other type I think. Dean never told me, of course, but I think a year on painkillers got him into other stuff. Drugs he had to buy on the street.”

“Vicodin, Oxycontin, it’s a big problem,” I said, hoping empathy would open her up. “A man in pain, addiction is the least of his worries.”

Cressa seemed to appreciate that. “That’s what I keep telling Rob and his father! Sometimes, he’d be like a zombie—sit around and stare. Next day, he’d be banging off the walls, full of ideas and new projects—and he is always broke, even though Robert Senior still gives him an allowance. That’s a sign, according to what I’ve read. Of drug abuse? The abuser is always desperate for money.”

“A head injury and chronic pain,” I said, “the guy needs some help.” Then tried to get her back on topic, asking, “Behaviorally, though, he hasn’t done anything to suggest he’s dangerous?”

From the woman’s reaction, the way her eyes moved to the ceiling, I suspected that what came next would be an evasion or a lie. She told me, “No . . . not in the way you mean. Oh, he likes all the macho stuff—same as most guys. But he’s usually very sweet. Deano and I always got along—friends, you know? At least, we were friends.”

“What kind of stuff?” I asked. “Guns, knives, bowling? I’m trying to get a sense of what he’s capable of doing. The police will ask if you report the cameras, so you might as well think this through.”

“He would never hurt me, I’m sure of that.”

“He already has if he’s the one shooting video. I’m not a physician, but brain trauma can cause all sorts of unexpected changes. And if the guy does have a history of violence—is he a gun buff?”

“No!” she said.

“I’m not accusing him,” I said, continuing to empathize. “Does he hunt?”

“Yes, but he doesn’t use a gun. Didn’t think it was fair. I don’t think Deano even owns a gun.”

“He was a bow hunter?”

The woman was getting frustrated. “Probably—I don’t know! He didn’t believe in killing animals with guns. Doesn’t that tell you something?”

“Cressa,” I said, “I’m trying to help,” then sat back and waited while she thought it over.

Finally, she looked up from the table and said, “I’m being overly protective. Sorry. Cameras, that’s what he hunted with—at first. Deano used to say a clean shot is a clean shot. He had Nikons, then he got into shooting videos. He’s always loved movies—he studied it in college.”

For the first time, it crossed my mind that Deano Arturo might also use the name Luke Smith. “Was he in the business?”

“He wanted to be in the business. Still does—and maybe it’ll happen if he gets well and finally gets a break. Five or six years ago, he did a camera safari, and he put together this incredible film about a tribe in East Africa, the men still hunt with spears. That’s when he started getting serious about documentaries. I don’t know if he did the bow-and-arrow thing, but he thought using a spear was the fairest way to hunt. No, ‘the noblest’—the corniest line in the film, I thought. But that’s not the reason the cable companies wouldn’t buy his film. Said it was racist, even though Deano loved the natives he worked with. Took him two years to get that film right. Damn near broke his heart.”

“Spear hunting,” I said. “That’s what you meant when you said ‘at first he just used cameras.’”

“What I’m telling you,” Cressa replied, her tone severe, “is that Deano was a fairly normal guy before the accident. Always pushing the limits—just the opposite of Rob. But, you know, in a healthy way. Like an athlete.”

“Sure,” I said, playing along. “Your brother-in-law was perfectly normal before the head injury. How about some more wine?”

I used it as an excuse to check the window and see what was keeping Tomlinson. For some reason, the man was rowing his dinghy, not using the engine. That was okay. He’d be here in time to guarantee I didn’t do anything stupid. And, so far, the odds against it were improving by the second—with every word that came out of the woman’s mouth.

—

“WHERE WAS THIS SHOT?” I had refilled Cressa’s wineglass and picked up the DVD. The woman had used the bathroom, returning fresh-faced and under control.

“I don’t want to talk about it tonight,” she replied. “You mind? I’d rather not start bawling again.”

The word WHORE!!! on the disc label had been typed, not printed, I noticed for the first time. “You might have a serious problem. You should go to the police like I suggested.”

Cressa tugged the belt of the trench coat tighter and folded her arms as she replied, “Rob’s father wouldn’t like seeing the family name in a newspaper. I wouldn’t like it, either.”

“Even if he’s dangerous?”

“Deano’s not dangerous, I just explained that.”

“You don’t know for sure it’s your brother-in-law,” I said, then tried a more direct approach. “In your prenuptial agreement, is there an infidelity clause? I’m trying to think of every motive possible. Whether it’s Deano or someone else, there has to be a reason for putting so much effort into the surveillance. Your husband says he didn’t know about the cameras. And if you’ve got nothing to do with it—”

“If I’d thought a clause about screwing around was necessary, I wouldn’t have gotten married,” Cressa cut in, then surprised me by taking the disc from my hand. I watched her grimace, struggling to bend the thing until it broke—CRACK!—then she sealed the subject, saying, “There. Like it never happened,” and handed me the pieces. “Can we please change the subject? I’ve had a terrible night.”

I was thinking, Any second, Tomlinson will be here, as the woman stood and told me, “All I want to do is pretend like it’s a month from now. That I’m here to relax and behave like a normal woman. Like I haven’t wasted ten years of my life in a platonic marriage—or should I feel guilty about that, too?”

I shrugged, meaning Whatever you say, which gave her permission, apparently, to unbuckle the trench coat and remove it one slow arm at a time. “It’s warm in here, but I love fires.” Cressa held the coat out for me to take. “Where should I hang this?”

Eye contact: rainforest eyes still glistening, but nothing broken behind those two sharp lenses, and curious about how I would react. It was because of what she wore beneath the coat: a pale lemon chemise that hung to her thighs, spaghetti straps that allowed her body to move cleanly beneath the satin sheen.

“I went running out of the house,” she explained while I turned toward the hat rack. “I was lying there in bed listening to all the sounds, then suddenly just panicked. Threw a few things in a bag and ran. You know how that happens sometimes?”

“It’s important to feel safe,” I agreed as I hung the coat, then immediately headed to the galley to check the window again.

“Don’t get the wrong idea about the nightgown.”

“Why would I?” I replied.

“I’m an emotional wreck, so it’s not the way it might look to your neighbors—but no one saw me.”

“It happens,” I said.

She used the handkerchief to wipe something invisible off a chair, then sat at the table. “I knew you’d understand. I hate Tomlinson’s damn little wet boat . . . Plus, I feel safer with you.” Cressa hesitated, then decided to risk asking, “You’re supposed to be the dangerous one, right?” In her tone was fascination.

Outside, I heard the clank of a plastic paddle, then a wet little rubber boat went THUMP! against the house.

“Who could that be?” I said, breaking the beam of the dog’s eyes. When I got to the door, I added, “Geezus . . . you’re not going to believe this.”

The woman stood. “Oh, no . . . you’ve got to be kidding! Doc?” The married mistress’s voice could also command, so I turned. “Let me ask you something. Honestly. Are you afraid to be alone with me?”

I focused on her almost Grace Kelly face and answered, “Yes . . . yes, I am.” Which was true—but not in the same way that Hannah Smith scared me.

“You shouldn’t be!”

“It’s a rule I have about breaking up marriages. I try not to rationalize what I personally wouldn’t tolerate.”

The woman was miffed. “But you’re wrong. Rob and I, our marriage is so over—Tomlinson understands that, and we’re still friends.”

Opening the door, I replied, “Tomlinson is a more spiritually advanced person than me. He’ll be up here in a second—just ask him.”